


Kill Shot

by PenguinofProse



Series: S4 Time Jump AUs [13]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clarke makes it to space, Episode: s04e11 The Other Side, Episode: s04e13 Praimfaya - Time Jump, F/M, Fluff and Angst, chess as a means of reconciliation, washing dishes as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25336396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: Time jump AU. In which Clarke shoots Bellamy in "The Other Side" and it takes him a while to get over it. Angst, fluff, lemons, and a few headcanons about Bellamy's romantic side.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: S4 Time Jump AUs [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764070
Comments: 29
Kudos: 151





	Kill Shot

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Guess what? I wrote another time jump AU. Huge thanks to Stormkpr for betaing, as always. Happy reading!

Bellamy hovers, distressed, on the stairs and looks down at Clarke. He's confused by this turn of events – he's been confused by this whole entire _day_ , if he's being honest.

He never saw this ending with Clarke pointing a gun at him.

He opens his mouth, and looks her right in the eyes, ready to tell her she'll have to make it a kill shot.

But the words never leave his lips. Suddenly hot, bright pain is tearing through his hand, as the noise of a gunshot rings out, echoing in the small space.

He holds it together, of course. That's life on the ground. So what if the woman he loves just shot him? So what if slick blood is coursing down his arm? He still needs to get this damn door open.

He does it. He reaches up with his uninjured hand, opens the door, finishes climbing the steps. He finds his sister crouched next to the entrance, and pulls her into a one-armed hug.

"What happened to your hand?" She asks, horrified.

He only shrugs, because he cannot quite bring himself to admit to her that Clarke shot him. He doesn't care to sit around and dwell on _why_ he can't admit that. Instead, he takes a brief moment to look down at his hand and inspect the damage. It's bleeding pretty heavily, but he's relieved to see that the injury is more superficial than anything. It's a graze across the back of his hand rather than a proper, destructive gunshot wound.

When he thinks of the look in Clarke's eyes, though, and of the damage done to their relationship, he fears that this puny graze might as well have been a kill shot.

He tugs his T shirt awkwardly over his head and binds it around his bleeding hand as tight as he can manage. That will do for first aid, he decides. He'll get some proper medical attention later. Right now, he has other priorities. He grits his teeth against the pain. He ought to be inured to pain by now, but this hurts more than he'd like it to. And then he gets on with saving the day.

"Come on, O. Indra. Let's get you inside."

"Your hand -"

"It's _fine_ , Octavia. I'll get it seen to when you're safely inside and we've got this mess sorted out."

She nods, frowning, and follows him back down the steps.

Clarke is still there. He should have known she would be. She's crouched in the corner of the room, rocking slightly, making really rather pathetic snuffling noises. She needs to pull it together, Bellamy reckons.

She's not the one who's been shot.

She hears their arrival, and jumps to her feet. And then, all at once, panicked apologies are spilling out of her.

"Bellamy, I'm so sorry. You have to know I would never mean to hurt you. I swear, it was supposed to be a warning shot, but my hand was shaking too much. I'm so sorry, I didn't -"

"Save it." He tells her, short and sharp.

With that, he strides straight past her, and goes to show his little sister her new kingdom.

…...

Clarke is Clarke, so of course, she cannot leave well enough alone. In the hectic bustle that follows, she manages to trail around after him with considerable determination.

"Please just let me bandage your hand properly." She begs him, practically jogging alongside him as he runs an errand for Octavia.

He looks down at his hand. His T shirt is stemming the blood flow perfectly well enough, thank you very much. He notices, too, with an odd kind of detachment, that he still has those bandages round his wrists from the handcuffs earlier. Clarke really is doing a fantastic job of hurting him, today.

Huh. He still has his T shirt wrapped round the wound. That means he's still shirtless. He probably looks a bit daft, he thinks, running errands shirtless. But he'll fix that when he has done his duty.

Clarke tries again. "Please, Bellamy. Just let me have a look at it. Gunshot wounds are serious."

"It's not _serious_. It barely grazed the back of my hand." He informs her, tone cold.

"It could still get infected. And I can see you've lost a lot of blood. _Please_ , Bellamy. If you don't want it to be me, I understand. Go see Jackson or my mum."

He almost considers that. She's got a point – there are other doctors in this place besides Clarke. There's one who isn't even _related_ to the woman who shot him.

"Please, Bellamy." She sounds pathetic, with all this begging, and he hopes she knows it. "You should get it treated as soon as possible."

"I'll go after this." He concedes, determined to avoid looking at her.

She seems to decide that's the closest thing to success she's going to meet with today. At any rate, she stops following him, so he decides to call that victory.

…...

They both end up volunteering to go fetch Raven from the island. That shouldn't be a surprise, right? The two of them remain absolutely incapable of letting anyone else take a risk they think it is their duty to bear.

No, he mustn't think like that about her. There was almost a compliment, hidden in there somewhere. And he can't be complimenting her, when she shot him only a couple of hours ago.

He tries to volunteer to drive the rover, but Clarke and Jackson and Abby all insist that it is not happening, while he has his injured hand swathed in so many bandages and has recently lost blood. He thinks this is all a bit excessive, really. It's not the worst gunshot wound in the world. All the same he is overruled, and Clarke ends up driving.

Bellamy sits in the back of the rover with Murphy and Emori. Murphy and Emori are very much in love with each other, which doesn't help. They sit close together, hands clasped, whispering under their breath about survival and pesky emotions.

Bellamy tries to ignore them, but it's difficult. Every time either of them so much as _breathes_ , it reminds him of the woman he was in love with until she shot him, sat in the driver's seat of the rover, navigating through the snow with scarcely a care in the world.

He hates her for being so apparently unaffected. She's always had a tough exterior, and always hid her pain well, so it shouldn't surprise him. But it does _disappoint_ him. He thought he mattered to her more than that. He thought that shooting him might merit a reaction longer than that one bout of messy crying at the foot of the stairs to the ground.

He knows better, now.

She's a monster, pure and simple. She broke the rules of the conclave. She locked Octavia out of the bunker.

She shot him.

It turns out that falling _out_ of love is a hell of a lot harder than falling _in_ love was in the first place.

…...

The comms system on the rocket is broken, and Clarke has to go to the tower.

That's fine. She has an hour to manage a journey which should take ten minutes each way. And then all she has to do is plug in some programme of Raven's and let the tower do its thing. Simple.

Only then she's been gone half an hour, and Bellamy is beginning to get nervous. He's trying not to get nervous, because this is Clarke, and his throbbing hand stands testament to the fact that she is not worth his nerves, not any more.

But worrying about Clarke is a tough habit to break, it turns out.

"I'm going to look for her." He declares, when she has only twenty-four minutes left on the clock. He doesn't allow himself to pause and notice that going to look for her is hardly compatible with giving up on their relationship altogether.

"No, Bellamy. I need you to help me finish these restraints." Raven tells him firmly.

"She might be in trouble." He says, trying to ignore the way his voice shakes. "I'll just go and -"

Clarke appears at that very moment, striding through the door of the lab, full of apologies for the delay. Apparently she had to climb the actual tower, in the end. She had to scramble up a centuries-old teetering stack of metal and move the dish manually. The mere thought of it makes Bellamy's heart start shaking strangely in his chest.

It doesn't matter. She's back here safely, now. That's what counts.

He's relieved that she's alive. But more than anything, he's relieved that her safe return spares him from driving himself insane as he tries to figure out what it means that he's still obsessed with her wellbeing, when she shot him only yesterday.

…...

They all make it safely to the Ring. Bellamy gets the oxygen scrubber set up while Raven pants out desperate instructions. He manages it just in the nick of time – his friends are passing out around him as the machine whispers into life.

He takes Clarke's helmet off and pulls her close to the outflow. Not because he's still in love with her, or anything. Just because he didn't protect her all this time for her to go and die on him now. It hurts to drag her bodily across the floor, because his hand is throbbing badly, thank you very much.

But he does it, because that's what loyalty is.

He only wishes she hadn't proven herself so disloyal to him.

…...

The biggest problem with space, is that Jackson isn't here. More specifically, Clarke is the only doctor available to him. And that means Clarke has to tend this selection of wounds she caused him herself.

"I'm so sorry." She whispers, the first time she redresses his hand.

He doesn't feel the need to dignify that with a response.

"Really. I'm sorry about your wrists, too. I'm sorry about _everything_."

He bites his tongue a little. That stops him from replying, and the pain in his mouth gives him something to focus on besides the pain in her eyes.

"Bellamy. Please just hear me out. You have to understand I never mean to hurt you. It was only supposed to be a warning shot."

She's said that before. He hasn't decided whether he believes her or not, yet.

"I'm never carrying a gun again." She tells him, tone fierce.

He laughs, hollow and cold. He cannot help it. That's a hopelessly naive thing to say, and they both know that Clarke is anything but naive.

She shakes her head at the sound, crying now, as she tries one last time. "I really am sorry."

"Stop apologising." He recommends, firm. "I don't want your apologies. I've heard it before, I don't need to hear it again."

She starts weeping more loudly, half way to those noisy sobs he remembers from the moments following the gunshot.

He sighs. "I don't need another apology. I need time to process." He admits, gaze fixed on the floor.

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever. I'm sorry."

Her bandaging finished, she flees the room.

…...

He has a tough time adjusting, over the next few days. A tough time adjusting to life in space, with his own room, and with safety, but without fresh air. Then there's the fact that his sister is thousands of miles away, and the limited range of company, and the endless free time.

The toughest thing to adjust to, without a doubt, is the change in his relationship with Clarke. It has become something unrecognisable, compared to what they shared only days ago, but he thinks that's hardly surprising, given the circumstances.

He's angry with her – beyond angry. And he doesn't trust her, to the extent that he can't even decide whether she's telling the truth when she insists that it was supposed to be a warning shot. But more than anything else, he misses her – or at least, he misses the woman he thought he knew. He wants to hang out with that old Clarke and tease her about her inability to sit still and enjoy peace. He wants to ask her to teach him to play chess, or maybe even get really brave and invite her to the viewing platform on a little bit of a date. He used to dream of having the freedom to invite someone special on a date, all those years he was bound by hiding his sister.

That's the worst thing. If he'd been told, a week ago, that he'd have five years of living with Clarke in peacetime, he'd have responded that it sounded like the perfect opportunity to finally move things in a more explicitly romantic direction.

Well, so much for that.

He hates the Ring. He's decided it already. He hates the confined space and the stuffiness, and the memories of an unhappy youth. He hates the nightmares – Clarke shooting him, Clarke shooting Octavia. Clarke not making it back from the tower in time to get on the rocket.

Most of all he hates being trapped here with her, unable to get enough distance to work through his angry, conflicted feelings.

Monty loves it. Raven is in her element. Emori and Echo are adapting fast, Harper is game for anything, and Murphy is simply relieved to have survived.

And Clarke? Bellamy cannot help but feel that she looks pretty sad, for someone who's just outrun the end of the world.

…...

The thing is, Clarke is Clarke. She's tenacious, with a core of steel. She doesn't give up without a fight.

Bellamy doesn't know what to make of the fact that she seems to be giving up on him.

"Raven fixed the radio." She informs him in the hallway, tone neutral, devoid of the warmth they used to share. "You could have a go at speaking to your sister."

"It won't work." He is sure of it. The signal cut out when Polis was hit by the death wave.

Clarke shrugs. She doesn't even bother trying to speak. She looks tired, he thinks.

"Clarke?"

"What do you want me to say, Bellamy? I'm not allowed to apologise again and you clearly have nothing else to say to me. What do you want from me?"

That's a question he doesn't know the answer to. He thinks that maybe he wants time travel, and a kiss, and the itchy, peeling scab to be gone from the back of his hand.

But he doesn't know how to ask for those things, so he ignores her, and goes on his way.

…...

Bellamy has got a good selection of scars that he can thank Clarke for, at this point.

There's the obvious one on his hand, of course, and the recent ones that encircle his wrists, too. There's that jagged stab wound in his leg, from when he went to rescue her from a man who turned out to be Roan. He's inclined to count the scars from the grounder battle at the dropship, as well, because he thinks really it's at least partly her fault that things turned out the way they did, there. And he's still got a patch of scarring on his knee from where he barked it badly on a tunnel in Mount Weather, when she sent him in there. To this day, he remembers biting down hard on his lip to keep from swearing at the pain and giving the game away.

He likes to look at them, when he gets changed at the start and end of the day. He strokes a sad finger over his skin, recounts to himself the story of how he came by each injury. Reaches the firm and certain conclusion, every single time, that Clarke is dangerous, that she's careless with his safety, and that he's better off without her in his life.

The problem is, the scar on his heart doesn't seem to agree with him.

…...

He decides that what he needs is a distraction. More specifically, he needs a warm and willing woman to take his mind off the cold and heartless creature he can scarcely even bear to look at, right now.

Getting laid has always worked for him, in the past. He knows that sounds callous – but to be fair, that's because he _is_ a bit callous about this. As long as the woman consents freely and has a good time, he doesn't see any problem with using sex to take the edge off his troubles and help him sleep at night. Roma certainly never objected, nor Bree, nor that sweet blonde from Camp Jaha who looked a little like Clarke, when he squinted, and whose name he can no longer remember.

He happens to bump into Echo in the rec room one evening. He's been trying to bump into her here all week, but that's not important. And now he's managed it at last, so he engages her in a brief superficial conversation about nothing, and then he leans in, and then he kisses her.

He doesn't like Echo at all, but that doesn't matter. She tried to kill his sister, and did kill his girlfriend. But she never tried to hide that, never tried to pretend to be someone she isn't. In this moment, he honestly trusts her more than he trusts Clarke.

Unfortunately, it turns out that Echo does not like to use sex to take the edge off her troubles.

She pulls away from the kiss, abrupt, a confused and rather cold look in her eye.

"I will _not_ be used to get back at the woman who saved my life." She informs him smartly.

He's taken aback. Truly, he is. This seemed like a good idea at the time, but when she puts it like that – well, it makes him sound like the worst sort of immoral monster.

It pulls him up short, and it makes him realise what he's done. Maybe his moral compass is misfiring a little, at the moment, as he finds himself still reeling in shock from that gunshot, even after all these weeks.

"I'm sorry." He mutters, staring at his feet. "That was out of line. I just thought – we could keep each other company?"

She snorts. He thinks it's the closest thing to a laugh he has ever heard, from Echo. "No. I'm not getting involved in this. You two need to sort yourselves out."

He grimaces at that. "She shot me."

"She shot you _in the hand_. By accident. It's not like she put a bullet in your sister's brain." With that, Echo stands, and sweeps from the room.

Huh. It seems like other people really do believe it was an accident. Maybe he ought to give that theory a little more consideration.

…...

So he's decided that probably it was an accident. He can't imagine Clarke lying about that. Sure, she's not above being manipulative when the moment demands it, and he maintains that there was something deceptive about her keeping hidden all this time the fact that she would be prepared to wave a gun at him, if it came down to it. But he thinks probably she was telling the truth about his injury being an accident.

And everyone else on the Ring does seem to think that, too. In fact, everyone else on the Ring seems to think he needs to get the hell on with forgiving her.

"Do we have any antiseptic?" Bellamy asks Monty, one morning. He's just got a little splinter helping Raven out with something, and he doesn't think it's worth bothering Clarke over.

"Ask Clarke."

"You know I can't do that."

Monty looks up from his book with a frown. "You _can_ ask her, Bellamy. She's Clarke. You know, Clarke Griffin? Your best friend? Half in love with you?"

He looks away, sharply. It hurts to hear Monty saying things like that. "I can't ask her." He reiterates, firm.

"Then you're not getting any antiseptic." If he was expecting sympathy from Monty, it seems he is destined to be disappointed.

Bellamy ought to leave, now. He has not succeeded in his task, and hanging around won't change that.

As ever, he is incapable of following his own advice.

"How is she?" He asks, voice so quiet he wonders whether Monty will hear him.

He does, of course. "Not good. She laughs even less than she did on the ground. I've tried talking to her, but she just brushed me off with some ramble about how her mother was _totally going to be fine_. And she always looks exhausted."

Yes. Bellamy has noticed that she has been looking drawn, recently. He files the anxiety about her mother away for later consideration.

"Thanks." He says as he heads for the door, even though he hasn't got any antiseptic out of this exchange.

He has got some food for thought, and that's perhaps more useful.

The thing is, he's not ready to forgive her yet. Even though he's decided that the shooting was probably an accident. Even though he can see that she was really just grappling with yet another impossible choice.

He decides there are a couple of reasons for this, as he meanders down the corridor and wonders where the antiseptic might be, if they had any. He knows it's partly because he's still hurting. Not physically, of course – he has only ugly scars on his wrists and hand now. But he's still upset that the woman he was falling in love with would do what she did. It makes him feel like he loved her more than she cared about him, and he doesn't like that. After a life spent protecting a sister who hit him for his trouble, and a mother who loved her daughter more, he thought that Clarke was the one person he'd ever met who honestly valued him deeply. He thought she might be his chance to seize the kind of happy ending he's always dreamed of, in his heart of hearts, and know what it's like to be loved genuinely and honestly and totally.

He's still grappling with the idea that might not have been true.

The other reason, of course, is that he doesn't _need_ to forgive her, now. In the past, whenever their relationship has gone wrong, they have been under time pressure. They hugged on that beach, because they needed to save the human race. But now, he has five years to forgive her, and so he finds that he is taking his time over it.

It was almost so very different. He remembers how worried he was, when she took longer than expected at that tower, the day the death wave burned. He still has nightmares about it to this day. He was so close to forgiving her, in the course of rushing out into the unknown to find her.

But then she came back safe, and so there was no urgent impetus to make amends. And that has landed him where he is now, with all the time in the world, and a false sense of security.

…...

When Clarke insists on taste-testing the algae, everyone thinks she has lost her mind.

"If it's toxic, we're all dead anyway." Murphy offers, not at all helpfully, brow cocked at Bellamy as if expecting praise for his impression.

"It's not toxic." Monty insists, evidently hurt. "It's food."

"I know." Clarke soothes. "But I just think it's safer to test. I know you weren't all there, but you must have at least heard about Gustus? Taste-testing is always sensible."

Bellamy sighs. He does remember Gustus. He remembers everything about that day, from poisoned goblets to _love is weakness_ through to _I was being weak_.

He wishes Clarke wasn't like this. He doesn't have to like her or anything to think that it would be nice for her if, maybe, she could stop expecting to be poisoned, now that she lives safe amongst friends in space. It seems that she's not capable of turning off her defensive – or should that be paranoid? - instincts for so much as a moment.

"Go for it. If it'll make you feel better." Bellamy recommends, gesturing at the algae.

She nods at him, the first fully polite interaction they've had in months. And then she takes a spoonful of algae.

It becomes apparent almost immediately that something is very wrong. Clarke starts coughing, clutching at her throat. And then she's spluttering desperately for breath, trying to gasp but coming up empty, swaying alarmingly in her seat.

Bellamy catches her when she falls.

He's not sure how he manages it, given he was sitting at the opposite end of the table and all. But he's there at her side, his arms open to cradle her close to his chest when she passes out altogether.

He scoops her up, and half-jogs to her room, legs moving as quickly as he can carry the both of them.

…...

Clarke's their only doctor, so trying to treat her is a case of one terrifying experiment after another. Harper swears she learnt a thing or two by helping out in med bay on occasion, and hooks her up to a fluid drip. Raven decides that a heart rate monitor is a machine like any other, and wrestles with it until it starts to let out reassuring bleeps in time with Clarke's pulse.

Bellamy sits by her bedside throughout, and no one seems to think that worthy of comment. He decides that's pretty strange, given they've been on terrible terms for the last six months, but he doesn't dwell on it long.

He's too busy clutching her hand and praying to any deity who might still give a damn about the human race to spare her life.

He gets it, now. He should always forgive her in a hurry, even when there is no imminent disaster bearing down on them. He should always be eager to snatch any scrap of joy while it lasts, because just one small sip of algae could tear his chance to forgive Clarke away from him forever.

He should always remember that they are better together, and that they were the closest of friends, once upon a time, and that he's still a little in love with her, if he's really being honest.

"You need to get better." He whispers to her, urgent, desperate, guilty. "You need to wake up so I can tell you I'm sorry for encouraging you to eat that damn algae."

She doesn't reply, because that's how being at death's door works.

"Please, Clarke. _Princess_. You can't go and die on me. You need to get better so I can forgive you. And so we can keep having stupid arguments about nothing, and I can forgive you for those, too."

Her monitor bleeps, and she breathes raggedly. It's his fault – he condoned that taste test.

"Shooting me wasn't _nothing_ , I guess. But I'm starting to see that it wasn't the end of the world. I'm still breathing."

He sighs.

"I need you to keep breathing, too."

…...

Clarke wakes up, and Bellamy thinks he will never stop being thankful for it. If he lives a hundred years yet, he expects he will still be rejoicing on his death bed at the fact he gets this second chance with Clarke.

She seems surprised to see him at her bedside, when she wakes up. He supposes that's only fair, considering how he left things, before she passed out.

She seems even more shocked that he's holding her hand, as she snatches her arm away from him with an urgency that makes him want to cry.

"Welcome back." He mutters, trying not to sound too pathetically emotional about this whole thing.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, shuffling weakly away from him, right to the far side of her bed.

He sighs. He should have known it wouldn't be so easy as he hoped. Even her remarkable recovery can apparently not work miracles on the state of their relationship.

He steels himself to be honest as he replies. "Worrying about you. Feeling guilty for encouraging you to eat that damn algae." He swallows. "Telling you I forgive you."

"You forgive me?" She asks, frowning, voice still croaky from disuse.

He reaches for some water and offers it to her before answering. She looks surprised by his kindness, and that hurts. But he pushes through it, helping her carefully into a sitting position with as little skin-to-skin contact as he can manage. He doesn't want to make her uncomfortable.

"I forgive you." He repeats, when she's finished drinking. "It was an accident. You were in an impossible situation. I'm tired of being angry with you."

She still looks less than convinced. "What changed? What brought this on?"

"You almost died." He reminds her, incredulous. Surely she can see why that might bring about a change of heart?

She only shrugs. In the whole of this horrific conversation, that's the thing that horrifies him most. That she's reached the point where she thinks nearly dying is only worth _shrugging_ about.

He tries again. "I nearly lost you. It made me rethink a few things." He scrubs a hand over his eyes, angry with himself for his weakness. "It made me realise that my life is better with you in it. And it made me think that maybe I should have done better at being there for you, too, these last few months."

She doesn't fall into his arms, or cry with him, or tell him it's all going to be OK. And that's a bit frightening, really, because that's how making up with Clarke has always worked in the past. They've always been able to fix things quickly, have always moved on and got back to normal the moment an apology was accepted.

That's what makes him realise how badly he's screwed up. Forgiveness was supposed to be their thing, and he's been holding onto this resentment for six long months. No wonder she's struggling to forget it all and fling her arms around his neck now.

He summons up the best smile he can, as he gets to his feet.

"I'll leave you to rest. Do you need anything? We didn't really know what to do." He gestures helplessly at the heart rate monitor and the fluid drip and the food and water at her bedside.

She shakes her head. "No, thanks. This is fine. You've done the right things." He hears a sticky swallow. "Thanks, Bellamy. It means a lot – everything you've just said."

He physically wilts in relief. "You're welcome. Take care. Shout if you need anything. I think you're going to have a lot of visitors coming by to check on you."

She manages the ghost of a smile at that, and he leaves her to her recovery.

…...

Bellamy doesn't know what to do about visiting Clarke. He spent a lot of time at her bedside while she was ill. OK, _a lot_ is an understatement. He spent every waking moment watching over her, and quite a lot of time Raven thought he should have spent sleeping, too.

But he doesn't know whether he's supposed to keep doing that, now that she's awake, and now that they have not managed to move on so quickly as to seal their reconciliation with a hug.

He asks Monty, in the end. Monty seems like the person to discuss this with – he's sort of sensible, and moderate, and less frightening than Raven. Bellamy reckons that if he tried to talk to her about this she would laugh in his face.

"How's she doing?" He asks. Clarke has been awake less than eight hours, and he's already asked this question four times.

"She's doing well." Monty offers, in a quelling tone. "You could go see her if you want."

Aha. That's what he was hoping for. He was hoping to pester his friend enough to get him to open the subject.

"Do you think she'd want that?" He asks carefully. "She seemed surprised to see me when she woke up."

Monty bristles a little. "Of course she was _surprised_. You've barely spoken to her in months. But that doesn't mean she wasn't happy to see you there. I think she'd like it if you visited her. She's been asking about you."

"She has? What did she ask? What did you say?" He tries not to sound too eager, and fails.

"She wanted to ask what I knew about you suddenly forgiving her. And I told her you'd been at her side the whole time she was sick."

Bellamy frowns. That wasn't Monty's news to tell. "What did she -?"

"Bellamy. Stop." Monty glares at him, more sternly than Bellamy has ever seen him glare at anyone before. "I am not playing the go-between for the two of you for the next four and a half years. Go talk to her yourself."

Well, then. That sounds like a pretty conclusive statement. Monty has made his advice abundantly clear.

Bellamy finds himself smiling tentatively, as he thanks his friend for his time and heads for Clarke's room. It's not a long journey, and he moves quickly. He's in something of a rush to make up for lost time, if he's being honest.

He arrives at Clarke's door and knocks. But then she calls to him to come in, and all at once, he finds himself struggling with nerves. It's stupid – he has no fear of loaded guns, but former friends he may or may not love are terrifying, it turns out.

He doesn't know what to say to her.

She calls out in welcome once more, and he knows he really cannot stand out here all day.

Steeling his resolve, he opens the door. He smiles a little as he enters, and then he crosses the floor and sits in the chair that still stands at her bedside. It was _his_ chair, most of this last week, but he's struggling to think of it like that since that stiff conversation when she woke up.

It isn't until he's sitting safely in his seat that he dares to look up at her face.

She's smiling at him, too, so that's encouraging. She's speaking, as well.

"Hey, Bellamy. How was your day?" She asks the question carefully, as if talking to a new acquaintance in the dining hall at Arkadia.

He is equally cautious in his reply. "It was OK, thank you. I helped Raven carry some heavy parts she wouldn't tell me the names of, and then I beat up Murphy for a bit." That wins him a laugh. Encouraged, he presses on. "How was your day?"

"Aside from the algae poisoning it wasn't bad. I've had a lot of visitors."

"Everyone was really worried about you." He admits, his voice breaking just a little.

She either doesn't notice, or pretends not to notice. "I guess it's a good thing I taste-tested it, huh?"

"Yeah." His voice is flat. He's not in the mood to joke about her near-death experience, and he's pretty certain he never will be.

"So – beating up Murphy?" She asks, tone almost bright, considering she's been comatose for the last week.

"Yeah. We've been training together, and Echo teaches us some Azgeda moves as well. You could join us some time if you want."

"I'll think about it." She says, in a tone that implies she has already thought about it, and the answer is a firm and resounding _no_.

He sighs. He used to be able to talk to Clarke for hours on end, about his sister, about his mother, about the end of the world. Now he cannot even manage to maintain a stilted conversation about leisure activities.

He fishes around for something to say, but she beats him to it.

"I've been working on my Trig with Emori. Well – I was before I ate that algae. You could come along to that if you want."

"Your Trig is better than mine." He reminds her. This is almost beginning to feel like a conversation.

"All the more reason to practise." She recommends, a hint of that teasing tone they used to share shining through once more.

That's it. That's the moment he decides that they're going to be OK.

…...

They are OK, after that. But he thinks it's fair to say that _OK_ is about all they are. They're not _good_ , nor _well_. They are just about friends, he believes, but they are not best friends who look suspiciously like they might be in love with each other, not like he used to hope they were, back on the ground.

He doesn't know how to move things in that direction. They're talking, and sometimes they exchange rudimentary greetings if they pass in the hallways. But Clarke still looks exhausted, and spends a lot of time alone in her room. And Bellamy still spends a lot of time staring at his bedroom ceiling and willing away nightmares of Clarke waving a gun in his face.

There are good things, though. Clarke seems to be trying to fix things every bit as much as he is. That's typical of Clarke, he supposes – he is the one who held the grudge, but she is still keen to take responsibility for closing the distance between them.

"Do you want help doing the dishes?" She asks that a lot.

Bellamy never _needs_ help doing the dishes. He's a grown adult – he's perfectly capable of washing eight algae bowls, eight spoons, a pan and a ladle.

He always says yes.

"If you're offering." He tends to add in a shrug, to make it seem like he's a laid-back and comfortable kind of friend.

"Sure. Let's do it." She'll have a go at smiling, and stand up from the table, and make a point of carrying at least ninety percent of the dishes, as if reconciliation can be measured in how much heavy lifting a person does.

It was the everyday moments of running a camp together that made him fall in love with her in the first place. And now, in these everyday moments of running a space station, he knows he has fallen for her all over again.

…...

He normally stays in his room when he's catching his breath after a nightmare. But this was a particularly tough one, with Octavia bleeding out in his arms, so he needs to get out of his room and pace the hallways a little until he calms down.

He doesn't bother with shoes. He just needs to get out of here. He throws a T shirt on, decides the threadbare sweatpants he sleeps in will do just fine, and goes for a walk.

He likes walking around the Ring when it's dark. He's done it once or twice before. It seems strangely peaceful, and when the lights are mostly off, the view out of the windows looks even more spectacular. He stops at the big viewing platform window, tonight. He supposes that he ought to keep walking – exercise will surely clear his head. But he's always been drawn to this place, to the dream of being a carefree young man who might loiter here on a casual date. His friends used to do that, when he was a teenager, but his sister's secret always prevented him from forming relationships like that.

He thinks of Octavia, now, as he gazes out the window. There's something strangely reassuring about looking down at the burning planet and telling himself that his sister is there. It shouldn't make him feel better, seeing as it's on fire and all. But it at least reminds him that she was alive when he left her, and she stands as good a chance of surviving this as anyone does.

He jumps a good foot or so when he hears a noise behind him.

"Sorry." The voice is Clarke's. "I didn't mean to startle you."

He turns and looks over at her in the near-darkness. "It's OK. I could use the company to be honest with you."

She nods. "Me, too. Couldn't sleep?"

"Nightmare." He tells her briskly, not quite capable of wasting words just now. "You?"

"I mostly don't get nightmares. More staring at the ceiling and worrying about my mum. And just... missing people." She explains, voice quavering in a most un-Clarke-like way.

He wonders about hugging her. That's something they used to do, in shared moments of vulnerability like this. But he's not sure he's that brave, any more.

He tries for a verbal hug instead. "I'm sorry to hear that." The words are inadequate, but he hopes that the warmth in his tone goes some way to making up for it.

"You, too." He hears her take a breath, loud and ragged in the darkness. "You know if you want to talk about it or whatever, we could. I'm here if you need someone."

That nearly has him crying. "Thanks, Clarke. And I'll always be here for you." It's the sort of sentence that he thinks would be more at home as part of their marriage vows, but he decides that they might never get that far, if he cannot manage to be a bit more open and honest with her in the meantime.

She nods, gazing out of the window in front of them.

He ought to go back to bed. He feels a lot calmer now – his sister was safe when he left her, and Clarke is safe here and now. And talking about things with Clarke never fails to make him feel better, even when neither of them really says much at all.

He decides there is one last thing he wants to tell her.

"I don't want to pry but – if this is something that happens again, if it's something that happens _often_ , you can always come talk to me." He swallows, tries to make his message a little clearer. "Just knock on my door any time. I mean it. If ever you can't sleep, chances are I'm awake too." He concludes, with a wry grin.

She looks surprised, but not in a bad way, he thinks. "Same to you, Bellamy. I mean it. I – I don't really sleep a whole lot. So you definitely wouldn't be waking me up if ever you needed anyone to talk to."

"Thanks."

She nods, smiles a shy little smile. And he goes crazy, and summons his courage, and actually convinces himself to squeeze her shoulder fleetingly as he passes by and sets out on his way back to bed.

He's beginning to understand why his old classmates used to swear that the viewing platform was a magical place.

…...

It turns out that there's a hell of a difference between issuing an invitation and accepting it. In the days and weeks which follow that conversation, Bellamy knows he's allowed to go knock on Clarke's door when he gets a nightmare, just as he knows she has a standing invitation to come to him.

But neither of them ever show up at each other's door in the middle of the night, and he isn't even surprised.

It was naive to think their friendship could be repaired so easily, he frets, staring at the ceiling and shivering with the lingering panic of a nightmare. It takes more than words to fix a relationship – it takes actions.

That ought to be his cue to hop out of bed and go look for her, but he cannot convince himself to do so.

He can't get back to sleep, on this occasion. He stares at the ceiling until morning comes, and the daytime lights power up in the corridors, and he decides that it is not so unacceptably early to make his way to breakfast.

It's still pretty early, though. Clarke is the only other person in the dining hall, shadows under her eyes standing out starkly against her pale skin.

"Are you alright?" She asks him, sounding genuinely concerned, the moment she sees him.

He ought to bristle a little at that, he thinks, at the open implication that he looks an absolute wreck. But he's too busy trying not to tear up at the fact she has noticed he's struggling, too preoccupied with holding back sobs at this clear evidence that she's still looking out for him, regardless of everything that has gone wrong between them.

"I'll survive. Thanks for asking." He swallows. "What about you?"

"Better for seeing you." She concedes without evident self-consciousness.

That gives him the courage to reach a long-overdue resolution. Next time, he's going to do it. He's going to bite the bullet and go share his sleepless night with her.

…...

He tries. Really, he does. The next time, he makes it as far as the hallway outside her bedroom door.

He stands there and listens to what's going on in her room, like an absolute creep. He can hear her breathing, and it sounds more like _wakeful_ breathing than a soft snore.

But he doesn't manage to knock. It's stupid, because one time she waved an actual loaded gun at him, and he was ready to look her right in the eyes and challenge her to make it a kill shot.

Maybe that's why he can't do it tonight. Maybe that's why he's still fighting the fear that she might hurt him, if he opens up and asks her to let him in. Maybe that's why his courage fails him, and he flees back to his lonely nightmares.

…...

They do a little better during the daytime. They keep washing dishes, and maintain a stream of polite conversation all the while.

"I said I'd meet Emori to practise my Trig tomorrow." Clarke offers, one evening, up to her elbows in soap suds. "You in?"

He thinks about it. He has no interest in being humiliated by joining a lesson in which both other parties are more fluent in the language than he is. He has little interest in learning Trig at all – he figures he'll pick it up sooner or later, during the next four years in bilingual company, and he doesn't see much sense in investing his time and effort into it now.

But he does have an interest in reconciliation, so he gives an eager nod, all childish enthusiasm.

"Yeah, thanks. I'd like that." He swallows. "I'm not very good."

"You'll pick it up. Emori's a great teacher. When we started out I only knew a few bits and pieces from trading with Niylah last winter but I can talk about most topics now."

He tries not to frown, but he didn't need that reminder of the last time his relationship with Clarke floundered.

He shakes his head. Stewing in bitterness about the past won't get him anywhere.

"Can we start now? Could you teach me a couple of phrases so I don't look stupid when I show up tomorrow?" He asks, nudging her gently away from the sink so he can wash the big algae pan. It's all very well, her always volunteering to help with this, but he doesn't want her to do all the work round here.

She nods, expression glowing, more openly happy with him than he has seen in months. "What do you want to know?"

"Whatever. You choose."

She hesitates a moment, deep in thought. And then she comes out with a sentence, smiling a tremulous smile. " _Yu laik ai kru._ "

His Trig may be poor, but it's not non-existent. He can piece that together, can work out that Clarke just called him her people. He likes to think that maybe she meant more than that – maybe she even meant he's still important to her, part of her family.

He risks another one of those fleeting shoulder-squeezes he seems to have started doing instead of hugs, since she shot him. His hand is wet with soap suds from doing the dishes, but she doesn't seem to care, leaning into him a little, smile still in place.

And then he swallows carefully, and sets about fishing for words and trying to do justice to the storm of emotions currently swirling in the pit of his stomach. "You too, Clarke. Always."

Washing dishes seems to have become his favourite part of the day, these last few months.

…...

In the end, it is not courage that allows him to take that step and seek Clarke out in the middle of the night, but fear that drives him to it. It becomes absolutely necessary, rather abruptly, when he awakes, screaming, horrified by a nightmare of her shooting him, that day on the ground.

This time, in this nightmare, he was convinced that she _was_ going to make it a kill shot. And that's frankly terrifying, and he knows there is only one possible way to deal with it.

He needs to go find her and prove to himself that it's not true.

He makes it to her door and knocks softly. She calls out in welcome right away, and he opens the door, and enters. He doesn't make it much further than that, though. He stays hovering just inside the threshold. There's no chair in her room – she must have got rid of that one he brought in here while she was sick, which hurts a little. And he knows neither of them is ready for him to sit on her bed, so here he stays, awkward, but proud that at least he has made it this far.

"Hey." She greets him with a simple smile and no difficult questions, and he is grateful for it.

"Hi. Sorry. Nightmare. I hope it's OK that I came here." He's struggling a bit to form real sentences, given his recent panic.

"Of course." She leans towards him a little, although she stays sitting up in her bed. It's just the tiniest hint of warm and welcoming body language, but it's enough to convince him to take a step closer.

He doesn't say anything for a moment. He just stands there, and breathes, and soaks in her reassuring presence.

"We can talk about it if you want." She offers, when his breathing is more or less back to normal.

He shakes his head. "Sorry. No. I don't think I can. It was about – that day."

All at once, she clams up. Her mouth hardens into a firm line, and she's no longer leaning towards him in welcome. "I'm sorry, Bellamy. I'm so -"

"Don't." He cuts her off, sharper than he intended. "That's not what I came here for. I just – I needed to see you." He tries for a smile, and he knows it comes out strained, but it must be better than nothing as Clarke visibly relaxes.

She nods, and breathes. They're going to be OK, the pair of them, just as long as they keep reminding each other how to breathe.

At length, Bellamy finds the courage to say more. "I keep wishing it was different. I don't mean wishing you didn't shoot me, although of course I could have done without that. I mean – I wish we had control of our own lives. I wish we didn't keep getting stuck in these impossible situations where there are only bad choices."

"Yeah. I haven't felt that way since I was a child."

He snorts. "I didn't feel that way even then. Factory station and an illegal sister, you know?"

She makes a sort of agreeing sound. He wonders if maybe they're done, now. He's feeling calmer, and they've closed a little more of the emotional distance between them, and he calls that a success, for one night.

He reckoned without Clarke Griffin, of course. He really should have learnt not to underestimate her by now. Here she is, pulling back the covers, climbing out of her bed, crossing the room towards him.

And then, of all things, she's opening her arms and reaching up around his neck and pulling him into the most heartfelt hug he can imagine.

He sighs, relaxing into her all at once. He's not had a Clarke hug for months, and he's missed them. She hugs like no one else he knows, throwing all her soul into it, revealing that human warmth she keeps hidden so carefully during the course of her day job. Her arms are holding him tight and she's resting her head against his shoulder, even rubbing her face into the cloth of his T shirt a little as she edges even nearer to him.

It looks like he's not the only one who's missed this.

"Thanks." He tells her, but the word feels inadequate, so he pulls her ever closer, hugs her ever tighter. He can smell her hair, can feel the soft skin of her neck beneath his fingertips. He can hear his own heart in his ears, beating louder and louder in celebration.

He was an idiot to think he could ever fall out of love with this woman. She could no more kill their relationship than she could ever have deliberately shot him. He understands that, now.

…...

He's feeling OK when he arrives at breakfast the following morning. He got some sleep after he went back to his room, feeling much calmer after his visit to Clarke. He's probably more well-rested than he has been since they arrived on the Ring, but that's not saying much.

Then Clarke sits next to him – just shows up and plonks her butt on the seat at his side as if it's the most normal thing in the world – and he starts feeling almost _good_.

"Morning." She greets him cheerfully. "What have you got planned for the day?"

He's struggling to keep up with this development, but he smiles and tries for a coherent response. "Might train with Murphy and Echo this morning. You could join us if you want?"

"Yeah, go on then. You might have to go easy on me."

He gapes, shocked. He wasn't expecting that to be such an easy sell. "Sure. We can teach you some moves and keep it fun."

"Sounds good."

This is almost shaping up to be a real, friendly, _easy_ conversation. Emboldened, he presses on. "What about you? Any plans?"

She appears to hesitate for a moment before she answers. "I keep thinking it's been too long since I played chess but I'm not sure if anyone else here plays chess."

"I could learn." He offers lightly, before he can think better of it. It's a bit like the Trig situation, he thinks. He's in absolutely no rush to learn how to play chess – in fact, he thinks he would gladly go the rest of his life without ever doing so – but he does feel an urgent need to remember how to be friends with Clarke.

"D'you want to?" She asks, eyes shining with something that looks a lot like hope.

"Sure. Training then chess. Sounds like a plan."

…...

All is not immediately resolved, of course. He's already established that this is not like the relatively minor conflicts they have had before now. She shot him, and he refused to forgive her until she nearly died, and that's the kind of distance that cannot be closed in one day simply by punching Murphy or moving a bishop absentmindedly around a board.

Their conversation is stilted, as he explains how to swipe Murphy's legs out from under him, Echo jumping in with tips whenever the conversation lags. Clarke is too polite when they practice their moves together – and most infuriating of all, she apologises every single time she takes Bellamy down, even though learning how to take him down is literally the point of the exercise.

He supposes he can understand that, though, given all that has passed between them. He can understand that she might feel uncomfortable leaving him, winded, on the floor.

Chess is a little better. She tells him what each of the pieces does, and offers him some tactical tips. It at least gives them something to talk about, so that the conversation is not hampered by yawning silences.

It's the best day he's had since the death wave hit.

…...

Clarke knocks on the door of his room three nights later.

He's been wondering when it would happen. It says a lot about his newfound faith in their ability to repair their friendship that he was genuinely expecting her to show up sooner or later, he thinks. Anyway, here she is, now, peering around his bedroom door and stepping out of the shadows, into the glow of his bedside lamp.

He sets aside the book he was failing to read and greets her.

"Hey. Come on in."

"Thanks."

There's a pause. He's sitting up in bed, and she's standing, hovering half way between him and the door.

He takes a leaf out of her book, and has a go at being brave. "D'you want a hug?"

She nods, visibly trying to shape her lips into a smile even as her eyes are swimming with tears.

He doesn't need to be told twice. He jumps from his bed, takes two quick strides, and gets on with enfolding her in his arms.

It's even better, this time. He's not so surprised, and is more ready to simply enjoy the closeness. She's snuffling a little, crying into his shoulder, which ought to spoil the mood, but strangely it doesn't. It's horrible, but the fact that she's crying on him almost makes him happy. It shows him that she still trusts him, that he's still the person she wants to come to for comfort, that there is hope for patching up their relationship after all.

He reminds himself not to take inappropriate liberties, while he's hugging her. This is just a platonic hug between tentative friends, and he would have no business pressing his lips to her neck. He contents himself with tangling a hand in her hair, running the strands reverently between his fingertips.

He's in love with her. He's so in love with her it hurts, stings more fiercely than that stupid flesh wound she inflicted upon him all those months ago.

He'd give anything, now, to be able to take back those months of stewing in pointless anger. He wishes he hadn't stormed off up the steps, in the moments after the gunshot rang out in that airlock. He thinks things might have been rather different, now, if he'd taken a second or two first to pull her into a hug and tell her he understood, and everything was going to be OK.

"I've got you." He whispers, aware that it's not a terribly platonic thing to whisper in this context, while he cradles her to his chest. "I've got you, Clarke. You're OK."

She sniffles a little more, says something about her mother and ALIE and the EMP.

"She'll be OK, Clarke. She has Jackson to help her sort it out. And you know Kane would do anything to take care of her. And whatever happens, you know I'll be here to help you through it."

She pulls back, then, looks him right in the eye. "Will you?"

He swallows painfully. He deserves that. "Yeah. I swear, Clarke. I'm here, and I always will be. I'm not going to let you down again."

She shakes her head – whether because she disagrees with him, or because she despises the situation, it's not quite clear.

"I just want things to go back to normal between us." She is half way to wailing, and that scares him. He doesn't like to see Clarke on the verge of falling apart. It's not something that happens very often, and when it does, it's serious. He cannot believe he is the same person who actually felt _disappointed_ that she did not make more of a noisy display of her guilt, straight after the shooting. He can see, now, that the wound she inflicted on her own self-respect that day runs deep.

"I want that too. But it seems like it's not so easy as that. I think – it's something we're going to have to keep working at."

She looks disappointed, and he can quite understand why.

"I want it to go back to normal." He reassures her urgently. "Really. Let's keep trying, OK? Let's keep playing chess and doing the dishes."

She smiles, just a little. "Yeah. We'll get there."

He pulls her back into the hug. He tries to be gentle about it, but he literally pushes her face back into his shoulder. He's done with looking into her sad eyes, and watching her tentative smiles. He just wants to hold her tight and show her how much she means to him.

She doesn't seem to mind. She nestles back against him, rather calmer now, her breath tickling the skin of his neck.

"I'm sorry." She tells him, for perhaps the thousandth time.

"Me, too – I'm sorry for my part in it. I forgive you, OK? I forgive you." He swears he's starting to sound more desperate every time he says it to her.

She nods against his neck, and they stand there and hug a little longer.

…...

They try to remember how to act normally towards each other, in the days and weeks that follow. He doesn't think he's imagining that they're both putting a concerted effort into it, on the back of that conversation in his room that night.

In some ways they succeed at acting normally. They spend ever more time together during the day, training or doing their chores or playing chess. In a way that is harder to define, they become each other's first choice of person again, too – first choice for company, or hugs, or a second opinion on the topic of the day.

The way they act at night, however, is no normal part of their old relationship. One of them knocking on the other's door in the early hours becomes an ever more frequent occurrence. That's certainly something they didn't used to do on the ground. Bellamy's chair even reappears in Clarke's room, but he doesn't use it much. In the spirit of normalcy he mostly sits at her side on the bed, these days. They never used to have much fear of personal space, in the months before the gunshot, as far as he can remember.

One of the stranger things about their new normal is the narrow range of activities they pursue together. It's as if they have decided that wrestling and dishes and chess are safe, and they do not dare to branch out into anything new.

It's a symptom, Bellamy thinks, of how scared they both are, and he decides he'd quite like to do something about it.

…...

"Do you like to read?" Bellamy asks Clarke while they wash the dishes, one evening.

She looks a little startled. "Read?"

"Yeah." He feels his jaw tense, and tries to remember to relax. He didn't ought to be scared of a conversation about books with his best friend. "I realise I've never really known you in peacetime long enough to know what you like to do for fun. Are you into reading?" She seems to take his point, nodding earnestly. Typical Clarke – approaching friendship with earnest attention.

"I guess I would read sometimes before I went to solitary. I liked Pride and Prejudice." She offers.

"Why does that not surprise me?"

She shrugs. "Elizabeth's cute."

He takes her olive branch and runs with it. "Yeah, I'll agree with that. Smart, too. And Austen's not my favourite but Pride and Prejudice is a good book."

"You've read it?"

"I like reading. I prefer the Iliad but your taste could be worse." He has a go at teasing.

She grins at him. "Of course you do. Go on then, what else do you do for fun? I guess you've noticed I like to draw? Ever been into art?"

"Not really. I sewed sometimes when I was a kid to help my mum, but I guess I wasn't really doing that for fun."

She nods. "Movies?" She asks.

He laughs. "Oh, yeah. We used to watch a lot of kids' movies with O to keep her quiet when she was too young to really understand why she couldn't go out. She used to love all the Disney movies."

"What was her favourite?"

"The Lion King." He remembers, smiling fondly.

He misses his sister. He misses the fierce young woman who won the conclave and saved the human race. But sometimes, in the guiltiest corners of his heart, he thinks he might miss the innocent four-year-old Octavia more.

…...

Bellamy wastes no time in executing his plan for the next stage of his normal friendship with Clarke. The following evening, as they finish up with the dishes, he invites her back to his room.

She looks a little surprised. Invitations into each other's space are usually reserved for the middle of the night, or come under the cover of a game of chess. But all the same, she follows him to his quarters cheerfully enough.

He waves a hand at the bed when they arrive, and she sits herself down, on the side he is unfortunately beginning to permit himself to think of as _hers_. And then he hands her a datapad and a book.

"What's this?" She asks, even though she can presumably read that it is a copy of _Emma_ and see that it is a datapad.

"I couldn't find a hard copy of Pride and Prejudice. Sorry. But Emma's kind of fun, right? And you can always use the datapad if you want Pride and Prejudice instead. And I found a biography of Augustus I haven't read before, so – yeah. I thought we could hang out and read." He concludes, feeling a little foolish, staring at his shoes.

Clarke shot him. He remembers – he was there. She shot him, by accident, trying to save the human race. He proceeded to make a show of hating her until she nearly died. And he thinks all this can be fixed with a worn Jane Austen novel?

To his shock – and delight – it turns out that it can, at least in part.

"Thanks, Bellamy. This is great." She looks startled but happy, he thinks. "This was a good idea. Thanks for finding _Emma_ for me." She pats his side of the bed in clear invitation.

Well, now. He's not going to say no to that.

…...

It gets easier, after that. It's like the floodgates have opened, and anything is fair game, and they spend their evenings together reading and playing board games and drawing and even watching movies on the datapad, hunched over the small screen together, ignoring personal space for old times' sake.

Their friends notice the difference, too. Bellamy knows, because Murphy is not shy about mentioning it.

"Bellamy. Hey." Murphy catches him in the hallway. "About tomorrow – I guess Clarke's joining us?"

He shrugs. "You'd have to ask her that."

Murphy laughs. "Yeah, right. As if you don't know her every move. You know full well what she has planned for tomorrow."

He does, actually. She plans to train with him and Murphy and Echo, and then look over the medical equipment in the storage unit on Deck C, and then spend the evening watching a movie with him.

But he doesn't quite dare to tell Murphy all that, for fear of jinxing his tentative happiness.

"I think she plans to train with us." He says, keen to end the conversation and get back to his room, and Clarke, and a fascinating book about ancient Greek battle strategy.

"Great. Good. I'll see you there. And give Clarke my best when you get back to your room, won't you?" Murphy says, grinning, as he turns to saunter off down the corridor.

…...

It's only a matter of time, of course, until they begin to _start_ the night in each other's rooms, rather than only ending up there in the early hours, driven by anxiety and bad dreams. It works quite well, their new routine. They pick a room, his or hers, almost at random. And then they sit up late together, pursuing one of their new hobbies or just talking, until they both feel either calm enough to try sleeping or so exhausted that their eyes are drifting shut despite their turbulent emotions.

"My place or yours?" Clarke asks over the dishes, one evening. It's a question that has become routine between them, now, and Bellamy can't help but feel a little thrill of excitement every time he hears it.

It makes things sound _normal_ , he thinks. Or maybe it makes things sound abnormal in the best of ways – it makes things sound a bit _coupley_ , he hopes, almost like he might one day get to invite her on that date to the viewing platform after all.

All the same, he cannot help but dream of a future where there is no _his place_ or _her place_ , but only _their place_.

"I don't mind. What do you want to do?" She has some soap suds on her cheek, and he brushes them away carefully. He doesn't understand how she ended up with bubbles on her cheek of all places, but he's not going to turn down a perfectly good platonic excuse to stroke her face.

"If we want to play chess we should go to your room, you have the table." She reminds him.

He nods. "Great. Chess at mine."

They're still playing chess six hours later. The funny thing is, Bellamy still doesn't even like chess that much.

…...

They're doing well at normality. Things are almost comfortable, and certainly pleasant. They hug a lot, hang out a lot, and read each other's minds more than a little.

So it is that Bellamy decides to go and ruin it, tear up the rule book for normal platonic friendly behaviour and float it straight out of the airlock and into the vastness of space. The worst thing is, he knows that's what he's doing even as he's doing it. He's completely aware of the implications of his actions, but he presses on nonetheless.

They've been watching a movie – _Troy_ , specifically, which is a long movie. It's now past two in the morning, and Clarke has long since dozed off against his shoulder. She must hear the credits roll, though, because now she sits up, blinking in a dazed sort of fashion.

"Why do I ever let you choose what we watch?" She laments.

"Sorry." He says, not sorry at all. He sometimes wonders whether it would really be so terribly dishonest if he were to deliberately start choosing films he knows she will hate, just so that she falls asleep on him more often.

No, that's probably manipulative. He used to get angry when he thought she was being manipulative, so he mustn't behave like that himself, now.

"I should get going, it's late." She starts casting around the floor in the darkness, presumably looking for her shoes.

"You could stay." He offers, knowing as the words leave his lips that there is no going back from this moment.

She pauses. She looks him right in the eyes, and even in the low lighting he can see that she knows exactly what he means.

And then she nods, and gets back into her side of the bed. Not sitting up as if to watch a movie, this time, but lying down, snuggled deep into the blankets, looking up at him as if to ask why he's still in a sitting position.

So that's it. He lies down at her side, reaches a tentative hand around her waist. She certainly doesn't seem to object to that – she snuggles back against him, tugging his arm closer around her, taking his hand while she's at it.

That's when he realises his mistake. The hand he reached out towards her with – it's the same hand she shot. It's not like he could practically have used the other hand, given that they are lying on their usual sides of the bed, but all the same, he is cursing himself for his thoughtless stupidity, blaming himself for ruining the moment and presumably making her deeply uncomfortable.

She doesn't grow stiff with guilt, though. To his surprise, she simply strokes the rough skin of his scar with soft fingertips, even as she relaxes into his embrace.

"I'm sorry." She says, because that seems to be a habit he cannot convince her to break, even after all this time.

"Shh. Get some sleep."

She does. They both do. In fact, he doesn't think he's ever slept so soundly, not since he was a young child.

…...

The next day is a day like any other. They train together. Clarke looks for medical supplies, Bellamy runs errands for Raven. The two of them play chess for a while, then eat with their friends, then do the dishes together.

"My place or yours?" It is Bellamy who asks the question, this evening.

"Yours. The bed's bigger."

He nods carefully, trying not to get too carried away at the thought that Clarke cares about the size of the bed. Trying not to presume that this means she is staying the night again.

They finish with the dishes. They walk down the hallway together, until Bellamy turns aside to his room and Clarke does not follow.

"I thought we were heading to my place?" He asks, stupidly, pathetically close to panic. He needs to get a grip, and stop reading rejection in everything this woman does.

He rejected her for six solid months, and yet she's still standing.

"We are." She confirms, with a gentle smile. "I just want to go change into pyjamas. Sleeping in a bra sucks. I'll see you in a minute."

He stands there, flustered, and watches her retreating back.

It looks like he's not just going to be faced with Clarke sleeping in his bed tonight. He's going to be faced with _braless_ Clarke sleeping in his bed, and he's really not sure he knows how to handle that.

…...

Raven is the first to notice their new sleeping arrangements.

"You could get a bigger room, you know." She informs him, out of the blue, one morning as he carries some old, broken piece of engine into the workshop for her.

"What?" He decides that pretending to misunderstand is his best defence, here.

"You and Clarke. There are loads of rooms up here. You don't both need to squeeze into your little bachelor pad. Go choose yourselves on of the couple's apartments."

"I – we're not – it's not like that." He tries again. "We're not really a couple. So we shouldn't have a couple's apartment." He knows exactly the sort of suite Raven is talking about – Monty and Harper and Murphy and Emori each share one. They have king size beds, not the small double he and Clarke currently make do with. They have en suite bathrooms, and a little living space, and everything else that a couple could want, for the closest thing the Ark could ever manage to a honeymoon. He used to dream about moving into such a suite on his marriage, occasionally, when he was in his teens.

That was before he realised he would never have the freedom to marry, with Octavia under the floor.

"You could have fooled me." Raven offers, ostensibly fiddling with a screwdriver.

Bellamy shrugs. He's not sure what else to say.

"Take care, Bellamy. Because I think you could have fooled _Clarke_ , too. You've already broken her heart once, don't do it again."

He coughs a little. He wants to speak, to defend or explain himself, but the words aren't coming out.

"I think you've got yourself fooled, too, though, haven't you?" Raven prattles on, seemingly perfectly fine without his input. "Stop waiting around, Bellamy. You don't want to let happiness pass you by."

…...

He takes Raven's words to heart, in the days that follow. He thinks she has a point, and he knows it comes from a place of good intentions – Raven has had too many chances at happiness slip through her fingers, and evidently she does not want that for her friends, now.

Bellamy knows what he wants. He wants Clarke, in every sense of the word. But he's not sure how to go about achieving that.

It ought to be easy. She spends every night in his bed. How hard can it be to just press a good morning kiss to her lips, one day?

It turns out it can be very hard indeed. Time and again he comes back to the thought that his feelings for Clarke scare him deeply, make him fearful in a way that not even staring down the barrel of a loaded gun can compete with.

…...

It's Clarke who does it, in the end. He ought to feel guilty about that – it always seems to be Clarke who puts in the emotional legwork between them. But, to be clear, he's too busy feeling beyond ecstatic to waste time with guilt.

They're curled up side-by-side on his bed. She's just set down her book, and he takes that to mean she wants to go to sleep. He places his own book carefully on his bedside cabinet, and turns to ask whether she wants him to get the lights.

But then she kisses him. It's not much of a kiss – just a brief and anxious peck – and then she pulls back, looking nervously into his eyes, worrying her lip with her teeth.

He kisses her back, properly this time. He cups a hand around the back of her neck, holds her fast against his lips while he kisses her as deeply as he dares. She seems to grow bolder now, too, running her tongue along the seam of his lips, bringing up a hand to tangle her fingers into his curls.

He groans into her mouth, which ought to be embarrassing. It's not like they're in the middle of passionate sex here – they've just been kissing for a few seconds – but it's honestly the best thing he's ever felt in his life and he's so overwhelmed he thinks he might actually be about to go and _cry_.

She doesn't say anything about his inappropriate eagerness. On the contrary, she seems to be having a very good time, too, sighing against his lips and running her hand down over his shoulders and as far as his waist.

Confidence bolstered, he shifts a little, and urges her to lean back until she's lying down on the bed. This is even better, he decides, leaning right over her and kissing her deeply. And she's braless beneath her pyjamas, and he cannot resist the urge to start fondling her breasts through the thin fabric of her sleep shirt.

When she starts groaning, arching her back to push her breasts up into his hands, he decides that he'd better stop and check what's going on, here. In this moment, he sincerely wishes there was such a thing as an instruction manual for seducing the best friend he's in love with, who happens to have shot him a year or so ago. It's a complicated and confusing situation which leaves him feeling less than sure of himself.

He pulls away from the kiss, resting on his elbow, and looks down at her. He tries not to appear too obviously lovestruck, but he's pretty sure he fails.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks, needing to hear her say yes. Needing to hear her say that, no matter what else happens, she will always be sure about _him_.

"If you are." She hedges, not meeting his eyes.

"I am." He thinks he sounds a little choked, but that's hardly surprising. "I've never been more sure about anything, Clarke. I want this if you want it."

She nods, eager, appearing slightly more confident.

"Clarke? Are you OK?" He doesn't want to take this any further if she's not completely comfortable.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. I just – I thought we could never have this, you know? After – after what happened."

He's not going to cry, damn it. That would be foolish and at least a little pathetic. He's about to have sex with the woman he's been stuck on for as long as he's known her, and he refuses to sully the moment with tears.

"I thought that, too." He admits. "That's what hurt the most, because I've wanted this for a long time." He confesses, forcing himself to look her right in the eyes.

She smiles at him. She still looks nervous, but she's glowing, too. It makes for a strange combination, seductive yet vulnerable, and he cannot resist pressing a quick peck to her lips.

"Then let's give it a try." She decides, voice growing stronger. "But – no pressure, OK? It's not something we're going to get perfect right away, and that's fine."

He cannot resist the urge to grin. "You saying we might have to keep practising, another day?"

She laughs. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

They get back to kissing, and keep kissing for a while, because kissing Clarke might just be Bellamy's new favourite thing. His hands get bolder, though, exploring more and more of her skin, and her top bunches up around her breasts until she pushes him away, laughing, to pull it off altogether.

"Is this OK so far?" He asks, while she throws it into some distant corner of the room.

"Yeah. It's good. Better than good." She tells him, and she looks like she means it. "You going to get rid of your clothes, too?" She asks, brow quirked.

He's not going to say no to that. He shrugs out of his T shirt, ditches those ragged sweatpants Clarke has been teasing him about for months. She loses her pyjama shorts, too, without apparent shyness.

And suddenly he and Clarke are naked in bed together, for the first time.

He's too excited to be nervous, now. He takes his mouth down to her breast for a while, flicks his tongue over her nipple, but then goes back up to her lips for a kiss. There's too many good things about Clarke, and he wants to explore all of them, all at once, so he doesn't really know where to start.

He's got time, he tells himself, as he feels her fingers start to tease his already-hard cock. He's got four more years of peacetime to make it up to her, and there is no pressure for this first attempt to be perfect.

That said, he really does need her to stop rubbing her fingers along the length of him, otherwise he's going to come straight into her hand and that's going to be disappointing for both of them.

"Leave it." He recommends, voice hoarse.

"Sorry." She jumps back as if shocked.

"Hey, it's OK. That was good. Just – save it for another day?"

She nods, softening a little in relief.

"Can I -?" He asks, hand hovering over her crotch, his meaning impossible to misunderstand.

"Yeah." She squeaks the word out. "Sure. If you want."

He does want. He wants _very much_. She takes the first finger easily, and it feels so good. No, that's not high enough praise. It feels _awesome_. He's finally made it this far with Clarke, and she's sighing against his lips, and he thinks probably this is what happiness feels like. He adds another finger, feels her wet and wanting him, teases her gently until she's gasping his name and begging for more.

He needs more, too.

"You ready?" He asks, determined not to screw this up, as he moves to hover over her.

She nods, looks him right in the eyes. It's the hottest thing he's ever experienced, he's pretty sure, her flushed face looking up at him as she begs him to get on with it.

Well, then. He doesn't want to let her down.

He knows it's not going to last long, the moment he eases inside of her. She feels too good, and the sounds she's making are hardly helping his self control, either. He's spent all this time thinking he would never get to hear her gasp his name, teetering on the brink of pleasure, and it's all a bit too much, if he's being honest.

She gets there first, which surprises him. Maybe he's not the only one, here, who's finding this moment rather intense. And then he stops thinking altogether, spilling inside of her, collapsing onto her chest and wondering whether the bed is moving beneath them or that's only his head spinning.

He nearly tells her he loves her, there and then. The words are gathering on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out of him, quite against his better judgement.

"You OK?" Clarke asks, saving him from himself.

"Better than OK. You?"

"Yeah. Really good." He can hear happiness in her tone, and he likes it. She hasn't had enough happiness, these last couple of years, in his opinion.

He takes a deep breath, wonders how to go about putting his desperate desire for reassurance into words. "This is happening, right?" He asks in the end. "You and me? We're doing this?"

"I'd like that."

With that, he relaxes. He's still lying on her chest, of course, but now he really sinks into her embrace and lets himself enjoy the moment.

She seems to be stroking his forehead, but he doesn't object. He just thinks it's a bit of a weird thing to be stroking at this point.

"You alright there?"

She keeps stroking. "Yeah. Just – freckles."

He smiles against her bare chest. "OK then. Freckles."

Feeling emboldened by her transparently affectionate behaviour, he has a go at responding in kind, pressing little kisses to the top of her breasts. She takes that well, he decides, as now she picks up his hand and intertwines their fingers, then starts kissing his wrist and the back of his hand.

That's when he realises what she's doing. She's kissing his scars – the scars that she gave him.

"I'm sorry." She whispers, because of course she does.

He gathers his courage. "Clarke?"

"Mmm."

"Can I suggest something? Next time you feel like you want to apologise – could you try kissing me, instead?"

She doesn't answer for several long seconds. Her lips are still pressed to the back of his hand, but all the same, he starts to worry in the silence. Did his suggestion sound creepy, like he was trying to pressure her into kissing him? He hopes not, because he was only trying to help her break the habit of self-loathing. Or is it more that the intimacy of sleeping together does not compare to the intimacy of talking about guilt?

At last, she answers him haltingly, her breath brushing over his scar as she speaks.

"I'll try that. Yeah. It's a good idea. Only – I might end up kissing you quite often."

He pushes up off her chest, then, and reaches in to kiss her on the lips. "That's OK. I'm not going to complain. Kissing you is pretty great, it turns out."

She nods. "You sure that's what you want?"

"More than anything. I mean it, any time or place, you just kiss me."

She gets started, there and then, lazily making out with him until they're both too tired to continue.

He sleeps well that night, Clarke cradled in his arms and breathing softly. Sleeping well is almost becoming a new habit of his, and that's good. But it's even better to note that the shadows under Clarke's eyes seem to be receding, too.

…...

She does end up kissing him quite often. He notices that pretty early on, the next day. She gives him a passing peck on the cheek at the breakfast table, while they wait for algae to be served. She kisses him after every round they wrestle together, ignoring Murphy's robust teasing all the while.

It's not clear to him whether she was really repressing the need to apologise as often as all that, or whether she just likes kissing him.

To be fair, he kisses her at least as often. He just can't seem to keep his hands – or lips – off her, now that he's officially allowed to touch her. He finds himself feeling strangely shy about the whole thing, seeking out approval in her eyes before and after each and every touch.

Even after everything they shared last night, he's still petrified of ending this relationship before it really gets off the ground.

…...

Sex with Clarke is great. It definitely exceeds Bellamy's expectations, which is saying something, considering he's mulled over some pretty vivid fantasies of her in days gone by.

It's physically great, of course it is. She's hot, and she takes care of him. But there's far more to it than that. She gives so much of herself to each and every sexual act, pouring courage and affection and even humour into everything they share. And their communication is on point, if he does say so himself.

Just now, for example, he's eating her out while she makes appreciative noises and offers constructive criticism.

"That's great. Ah – yeah, there. That thing you just did with your nose? That was really good."

He tries not to grin, because he literally has his mouth on her, and he thinks that grinning would probably not feel so good for her. But it's difficult, because he's got his face between Clarke Griffin's legs and she's giving him feedback about how great his _nose_ feels and – it's pretty cool, OK? It's sort of _cute_ , and amusing, yet somehow still hot.

It's _fun_. That's what sex with Clarke is – fun in the purest form.

He thinks that after everything they went through, back on the ground, they deserve to have fun.

…...

Their friends have worked it out. That's hardly surprising, given the two of them go around kissing at the breakfast table. They seem happy for them, Bellamy thinks, but they don't take the piss or ask awkward questions.

Only Echo has anything to say about it.

"I bet you're glad I said no, now you've sorted things out with Clarke." She comments, tone even, as they find themselves the first people to arrive for a wrestling session one morning.

Bellamy pauses, a little unsure how to follow that up. He's only here to practise throwing punches – he didn't expect an inquisition.

"Yeah. I guess it's worked out well."

Echo snorts. "Yeah. I'm happy for you both, you know? You deserve it. I – I haven't forgotten that you two saved me."

With that she is done, warming up for the session in great springing leaps, shouting snatches of war cry as she bounces about the room. Bellamy watches her go, somewhat confused by the whole interaction.

He thinks he might tentatively become friends with Echo one day, as long as she really has stopped killing or threatening to kill the women he cares about.

…...

Bellamy and Clarke still wash the dishes together, every night without fail. It's a bit different, these days, though. As they grow more confident in their relationship, it is no longer anything like the stiff, awkward, guilt-ridden overture of friendship it used to be.

Now it's a strange sort of domestic bliss, blended with foreplay, and a good dose of laughter.

They have a bit of a routine going. Clarke will get started on the dishes first. Then, while she's occupied, Bellamy will reach around her, ostensibly to help her out, but really to leave a big, soapy handprint on her hip. Clarke will feign outrage, and shriek a little, and spin around to kiss him senseless.

He never knew chores could be this much fun.

…...

It turns out that evenings spent reading and playing chess and watching movies are even better, now that he and Clarke are a real couple. Now that he doesn't have to repress the urge to put an arm around her, and now that he can smile too broadly at her without fear of giving the game away.

He still loses at chess, though, consistently and often.

"Another match?" Clarke asks, grinning at him.

They're sitting side-by-side on the bed, cuddling close together, the chess board balanced awkwardly on his thigh. He thinks there's probably a reason people mostly play chess sitting opposite each other at a table, but he's in no mood to point that out.

"We could." He offers, voice carefully even. "Or we could do something else. We could maybe go on a walk to the viewing platform?"

"Why would we go on a walk to the viewing platform?" She asks him, puzzled. "I used to go there when I couldn't sleep but I haven't been in months."

He presses on. "I forget sometimes that you're younger than me. Did you not have that thing, when you were a teenager? Where asking someone to meet you at the viewing platform after school was like a date?"

"Yeah. We had that." She pauses. "I remember when Miller first got the courage to ask Bryan there, it was all anyone could talk about in class for weeks."

"Great. So – you want to go on a walk to the viewing platform?"

"Go on, then." She jumps to her feet, bends to press a kiss to his lips.

And then, of course, because she is Clarke, she walks to the door without further delay, turning back to shoot him a look that asks why the hell he's still sitting down.

He hops out of bed and follows her. Neither of them is wearing shoes, and it's the middle of the night, and it is in every way different from those youthful dreams he used to have, of one day dating – and even marrying – a wonderful woman, rather than only managing hurried hookups in closets and excuses for why he never invited a girl home.

But this is better, he thinks. He and Clarke have been through a lot together, and that makes it even more special, now, to be creeping down corridors with her in the dead of night, hands clasped, heading on the most unconventional but stereotypical first date of all time.

He decides that he can understand why couples used to meet here, when they arrive. The view is breathtaking – Earth and sky and openness, and a window so huge you can almost pretend it's not there at all. And there are plenty of dark little alcoves scattered around the place, perfect for a spot of making out.

They stand and look out at the view together for a moment. The Earth is still burning, in places, but there are no longer any flames over their former home. He's starting to believe that they might really get to return there, one day, to see his sister and practise being happy in the real world, not just in this almost unreal bubble in time and space.

But then, all at once, Clarke is kissing him, backing him into one of those dark alcoves, pressing right up against him. Her mouth is eager and almost rough against his, her hands are tangled in his hair, and before long she is grinding down on his leg and panting into the crook of his neck.

"This what you wanted?" She asks, tone teasing.

"Yeah." His voice comes out hoarse, but it can't be helped. "Decent date, huh?"

She makes an agreeing sort of noise, and then she tugs at his waistband, and begs him to screw her against the wall.

He does, because he doesn't like to let her down. Also because screwing her against the wall here, like this, has always had a special place on his list of fantasies. He bucks his hips, hard and fast, until they are both falling apart and clutching at each other simply to stay upright.

But when they're done, and they've repaired their clothing, they don't rush back to his room for round two. There's no need – there's rather a lot more to this relationship than sex, you see. Bellamy slides down until he is sitting on the floor, back up against the wall, and invites Clarke to take a seat between his legs, leaning into him.

"You doing alright?" He asks, because that's kind of their thing.

"Yeah. You?"

"Mhmm." He toys with her hair a little, rests his chin on her shoulder. "Thanks, Clarke. For this, for everything. Being with you is the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I mean that." He suspects he sounds slightly _sappy_ admitting that, voice thick with emotion, but it's the truth and she deserves to hear it.

"That's not saying much." She points out. That's one of the reasons they're so good together, he thinks – they both know each other's story pretty damn well, and are mindful of it, always.

He lets her have that, giving a hollow chuckle, chin still resting on her shoulder, cheek pressed to hers.

"You, too, Bellamy. I mean – being with you is the best thing that's ever happened to me, too." He can hear that it's a struggle to get the words out, and he's proud of her. She's never found it easy to admit that she cares about people, not since she lost so many people on Earth. He presses a kiss to her shoulder, leans back into the wall.

"I want you to tell me that, the next time we find ourselves on opposite sides." It's not an easy thing to say, but he perseveres. "We both know it'll happen again, Clarke. That's – that's life on the ground. But the next time the survival of the human race comes between us, just remind me of this conversation, please?"

She turns, awkwardly, and kisses him with her neck at a frankly bizarre angle. He's pretty sure that's an apology kiss – he cannot see why else she would make herself so uncomfortable right now.

"I mean it." He reiterates his point, voice firm. "I don't ever want to forget again how much you mean to me."

"Me neither. You're right. If – when – we're back on Earth and the next thing goes wrong, we remind each other."

"Best thing that ever happened to me." He repeats, tone affirming, kissing her on the shoulder once more.

"Best thing that ever happened to me." She echoes, rubbing her thumb absently over the scar on his hand.

…...

They move into one of the couple's suites four days later. They've got an en suite bathroom, a living space with two chairs and a small table where Clarke immediately sets up the chessboard. Bellamy arranges their books on a bookcase, and perches the data pad on top of it, almost like a miniature TV. The bed is bigger than the one in his old room, and he thinks it might be softer.

Or maybe that's only his imagination.

In his imagination, the beds were always softer, in rooms like these.

…...

Monty throws them a party to celebrate moving in together. That's a bit awkward, because they were trying not to make a big deal of it. But Monty's insistent, saying that they have had precious little good news to celebrate, in recent years, and that he has already started brewing the algae moonshine, and that he will not be denied.

"Looks like we're having a party, then." Clarke concedes, smiling that smile which still drives Bellamy to distraction, even after all these months.

"Yeah. Thanks, Monty. We just didn't want anyone to go to any trouble." Bellamy offers. It's not quite the truth, but it's a lie born of kindness rather than deceit, he likes to think.

"It's no trouble." Monty insists. "None at all. I think it'll be good for all of us."

Bellamy nods, and goes to start picking up the dishes. But Clarke catches him by the hand, before he can move, and bends to whisper in his ear.

"Don't look so stressed about it. If it's not fun, we wait until everyone else has had too much to drink and sneak back to ours to watch _Troy_." She offers, tone teasing.

It does him good, to see Clarke remembering how to enjoy herself. It's something he thought he wouldn't live to see again, the day he looked down the barrel of that gun.

…...

The party is pretty fun, in the end, once he stops feeling self-conscious about it being thrown in honour of his repaired relationship with Clarke and simply decides to enjoy himself. Murphy and Emori are dancing wildly, dipping each other and spinning and looking about ready to have a minor accident, frankly. Raven has drunk a lot of moonshine and is having an animated conversation with Echo, who seems to be staring at her lips. Bellamy wonders if there's something going on there, but he supposes it's none of his business.

He's the last person who's qualified to give anyone advice about getting their love life in line.

It's all going smoothly, until Monty stands on a table to give a toast.

Bellamy's already hiding his face behind his glass before his friend has even started talking. He didn't come here to be _toasted_ – he came here to drink and have a good time. Clarke has her face buried in his chest, clearly feeling much the same about the situation.

Then he hears Monty's words, and it gets even worse.

"To two of my best friends, for finally noticing they're in love with each other!" Monty declares, raising his glass high.

Bellamy could hit him for that. Monty might be the most peace-loving guy he's ever known, but in this moment, Bellamy is genuinely ready to punch him in the face.

…...

Bellamy is outright panicking, now. He managed to make it through the rest of the party in quietly simmering anxiety, but at this point he's walking back home with Clarke and he's about ready to fall apart at the seams.

He's just so scared of losing her. Clarke is easy to lose. He lost her for a few days too many, after the battle at the dropship. He lost her for three months, after Mount Weather, and then lost her to Lexa for a while, too. And he thought he'd lost her forever when she pulled that gun on him.

He can't bear to lose her, now. Not when he knows how great they are together. But he's very aware that she has a tendency to fear love.

He forces himself to act as normally as possible. He shrugs out of his clothes, wonders whether tonight is a pyjamas night or a straight-into-sex night. Realises he should have brushed his teeth, first, but dental hygiene doesn't tend to make it to the top of his list of priorities when panicking like this.

He's half way through washing his face when Clarke takes him by surprise.

"He was right, you know." She says, casual as anything.

He stops, startled, wash cloth limp in his hand.

"Monty was right, earlier." She clarifies. "I love you. Have done for a while."

He's stunned, but all the same, he knows what the answer is here. "I love you too. So much." He swallows. "You – you have for a while? How long?"

She suddenly looks sad. "Since I watched myself shoot you."

He abandons his wash cloth and strides over to pull her into a hug. "Me, too. Since then." Since she shot him, and he realised it broke his heart.

They hold each other for a while. Bellamy's not sure what to do next. He always thought everything would change, if ever she got brave enough to say those words. But somehow, nothing has. She's still Clarke, and he's still Bellamy, and the walls of their home are as grey as ever.

But his heart feels a lot brighter, so there's that.

He continues to wonder what his next move is. He kind of wants to show her how much he loves her in a bout of tender lovemaking, cherishing her and spoiling her and showing her how special she is. But that almost feels a bit cheesy, and generic, and not quite what his relationship with Clarke is built on. So he wonders about trying for an evening of domestic bliss, reading together perhaps, or drawing because he knows that's her favourite way to pass the time.

They do neither of those things, in the end. They end up lying in bed together, and cuddling, and talking until the early hours about everything and nothing, big questions and small.

"Do you want kids, one day?" Bellamy asks at one point, trying not to sound too overexcited at the idea.

"Yeah, one day." Clarke says easily. "Just as soon as we manage lasting peace on Earth and I know they'd be safe."

She says it as if it is so easy, when they both know full well that it is not. But even though it will be difficult, he is determined that it will happen. He's thought of peace as a pretty worthwhile goal for a little while by this point, of course – he's not the same angry young man who first landed on Earth.

But now he's absolutely determined that there will be peace. He'll make it happen. And when he's made it happen, he'll start a family with Clarke.

…...

Bellamy still isn't bored of sex with Clarke, for the record. It's been several months now, and those several months have been enough to show him that he will _never_ be bored of sex with Clarke – he's certain of it. Knowing that she's actually genuinely in love with him only makes it even better, somehow.

She's not shy about being in love with him. She whispers it against his neck, sometimes, as he's hovering over her and moving inside of her, and it makes it a little trickier to keep hold of his self-control, but he wouldn't change it for the world.

Clarke Griffin loves him, and every time he hears it, he feels his heart beat a little faster.

…...

They reach the half way point, their relationship still going strong. Bellamy always thought five years was a long time, but now he's lived two and a half of them, it's starting to feel too short.

That's silly, of course. He loves his sister, and he wants to get back to Earth and see her. And Clarke promised him, months ago, at the viewing platform, that she'd help him out, if ever he should forget how he feels about her, if they find themselves in trouble on the ground.

But all the same, he's half dreading their return.

Clarke works it out. Obviously she works it out – it's the first truly sleepless night he's had since they got together. So of course she notices him lying, awake and watchful, in the darkness.

"Want to tell me about it?" She asks. It's somewhere between three and four in the morning, he thinks, give or take an hour or a lifetime or two.

"We're half way." He points out.

"Yeah. We are." She doesn't ask more questions, just shuffles closer, holds him tighter.

He's grateful for that, and it gives him the strength to press on. "What if things go wrong, when we get back there? What if _we_ go wrong?"

"I won't let that happen." She says, fierce, and he believes her. He _trusts_ her, not like he mistrusted her in that fit of anger, those first months after the shot. He cannot believe, now, that he ever allowed his faith in her to waver.

"Me neither." He decides, taking strength from her strength as he has always done. "We'll remind each other, yeah? Best thing that ever happened to me."

"Best thing that ever happened to me." She echoes, whispering against his skin.

It's the middle of the night, and he ought to let her sleep. So he tries not to be too insistent about it, as he crooks a finger under her chin and angles her face so he can kiss her. He doesn't want to pressure her into this if she genuinely wants to rest – it would be selfish to pursue sex with her now, just because he can't sleep, if it's not what she wants.

It is what she wants, so it turns out he doesn't need to worry about that.

She wants it – she tells him so. More specifically she tells him that she wants _him_ , whispering it in a frankly obscene tone that would have had the rather younger Bellamy she first met on the ground growing hard in his boxers, he's pretty sure.

He matches her, move for move, murmuring compliments against her skin as they kiss, as his hands roam further, as her gasps grow breathier. And then she's taking things into her own hands, straddling him, swinging a leg across his hips and sinking down onto the length of him.

He loves her like this. He loves her in all her forms and all her moods, of course – in their bed or out of it, at four in the morning or at a lazy lunch date with a game of chess. But this is definitely a pretty great view of Clarke, breasts bouncing, head thrown back, confident and downright sexy as she brings both of them pleasure.

He feels a lot better, by the time he's spilling inside of her. He feels relaxed, and he feels reminded of the fact that they fit perfectly together, and they've yet to find a problem that can separate them forever.

He feels _much_ better, though, when they lie together afterwards, and she presses a kiss to his jaw and starts murmuring words of reassurance.

"I love you." She reminds him, in case he's forgotten in the three minutes since she moaned the same confession, teetering on the verge of orgasm.

"I love you, too. Have I told you recently that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me?"

"That line's getting old, Bellamy." She teases him, settling into his chest for a couple more hours' sleep.

She's not done yet, though. Of course she's not. Even in a teasing mood, Clarke is completely incapable of letting pass an opportunity to show him how much she cares about him.

"Being with you won't stop being the best thing in my life. Not ever. Not here, and not on the ground." She tells him, and he thinks he's never heard her sound so passionate about anything before. Not about peace, nor about justice, nor about saving her people.

It makes him feel special, and that's not bad going, for a janitor from Factory Station.

…...

Sometimes, when it takes him a minute too long to drop off at night, or when he has a spare moment between chores, Bellamy allows himself to wonder if that gunshot is actually the best thing that ever happened to him. It's a silly thought, of course, because to be clear, it _hurt_. But the way he sees it, that gunshot taught him and Clarke a lot about the strength and depth of their relationship. It showed them that their love can overcome any obstacle. And it certainly makes this happiness they have now feel all the sweeter, snatched as it was in the face of despair.

Sometimes he even drives himself crazy by thinking of other possibilities. Better a warning shot in the hand than a kill shot in the head, for example. And maybe it's best that she shot him, so she was alone and undistracted in the front of the rover as she drove through the hazardous forest, dodging desperate grounders.

Maybe this scar on the back of his hand is a reminder to be joyful, not just a souvenir of pain.

For sure, that shot was not an ending but a beginning.

…...

Time flies when you're having fun.

It's a saying Bellamy never gave much thought to, as an angry young cadet with an illegal sister and no concept of fun to speak of.

But he knows it's true, two and a half years later, as he stands at Clarke's side on the viewing platform and marks their last evening in space. He really has had fun, these last few years. He's still not convinced that chess is necessarily his idea of a good time, but he's read a lot, and made love a lot, and become a rather happier person along the way.

He just hopes that lasts when they get back to the Earth.

"We'll be OK." Clarke tells him. She always was too good at reading his mind.

"Best thing that ever happened to me." He reminds her. He has faith in their ability to remind each other, now, more or less.

"You're allowed to be nervous. I'm nervous too." She tells him. "I know things will change on the ground, Bellamy. Plans don't last long on Earth. But one thing that won't ever change is the way I feel about you."

"Yeah. Same. I mean, if our love can survive you shooting me, I think we can make it through anything, right?"

"Right."

They stop talking, then. The time for words is past. Visits to the viewing platform are about making out in dark alcoves, about hitching her leg around his hip and making her come, hard, while she cries his name and it echoes around the otherwise deserted room.

He holds her tight, afterwards. He presses his lips to her neck, wraps a hand around her plaited hair, and then simply stands and breathes with her.

They're going to be OK, the two of them. No matter what the world may throw at them, no matter how many loaded guns or only choices, their love still remains alive and kicking.

No. It's better than that. Their relationship is _thriving_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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